Gospel according to Godsbane
by The Skeptical Puck
Summary: We have our Da Vinci code, and Judas has been writing despite the considerable handicap of being dead, so I thought why not?


With all these "real" versions of the tales of Jesus that have been made up over recent years, I thought I'd jump on the proverbial bandwagon. So to you, dear reader, I present: The Gospel according to Godsbane

* * *

Three mages crossed the land atop three strong camels. Each of them bore gifts for a great king to be born that night, Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh. Passing along a dusty, lonely road they came upon a couple in a barn, and, dipping their heads, entered and asked if there was anyway to help. The soon-to be father, raising his head in joy, bonked the old men over the head with a wooden club.

"They've got Jewellery and scented resins. What a bunch of poofs!"

* * *

Jesus shovelled dung. His father had shovelled dung. His father's father had guarded dung, letting it gain age and flavour, and his father's grandfather ate dung, checking for quality and consistency. Jesus was the only one of the family never to have secured a promotion. And thus, leaning on the handle of his shovel during a well-earned break, he overbalanced and fell straight into a steaming pile of manure.

"GOD DAMMIT!" Jesus hadn't quite got the hang of leaning on the end of a shovel (a skill that takes many years to master, even to the most talented of dung shifters) and thus was taking god's name in vain in a rather loud and blasphemous manner. It was during this rant that he realised he'd had an idea (a rarity for him, his grandfather had been the intelligent one in the family, able to secure two promotions in a lifetime, doubling the family income, and allowing food into the budget for the first time) and this idea was that God seemed to be earning a considerable amount of money, so why not become god? Jesus, not being particularly bright, had difficulty seeing the obvious problems with that course of action, but eventually came to the conclusion that should he become god, he would certainly need to stop shovelling dung. His concept of god was not quite as malodorous as he himself was. Unfortunately, the speed at which he came to said conclusion was not rapid, and as such, the pile of manure he'd fallen into had hardened with no-one to shovel it away, and had set solid about him, leaving him quite trapped.

Suitably extricated, and having brushed down the last flakes of dung encrusted upon his person, he set forth on his journey to become a god.

* * *

Like any man of the shovel, Jesus liked a good drink, and like any man who went to "The Shovel," the nearest pub, he never got one. Sitting in a corner, nursing a cup of wine, which in the local parlance was only referred to as "cat piss," he contemplated on how he would become a god. Actually he contemplated how much longer he'd have to suffer the awful taste of the drink in his hand before he was too drunk to notice, but it doesn't matter. Both lines of thought amount to nothing, as nobody can become god, and nobody, I repeat nobody, can ignore the taste of "Saint" Peter's wine, no matter how wasted they are. Interesting to note, Peter isn't called a saint for any piety on his part, but merely the fact that his was the only tavern within twenty miles of the place, and no-one in their right mind can work in the dung industry without a constant supply of alcohol. Of course many would question whether anyone in their right mind would work with any faecal matter at all, regardless of whether they had a constant stream of poisons to keep their mind suitably calm, but that's another matter entirely.

Sitting happily in his little corner, he was quite blissfully unaware of a rather foul-smelling giant of a man who had heaved his great body over to the table, pulled up a chair, sat down and promptly broke it. Having been afforded sturdier furniture, the man sat once more and, holding out a hand, introduced himself as Paul.

"Jesus Christ," Jesus replied, grasping the proffered hand in his own

"What's so surprising about the name Paul?" The giant queried, his eyebrows arched.

"Nothing!" Christ's reply carried a little inflection of indignation, and more than a little confusion.

"But you said Jesus Christ." It is unfortunate to say that, among those in the manure trade, this is a surprisingly intellectual conversation.

"That's my name!" The giant was silent now, merely forming an "Oh," under his breath as they mused upon the new information, until both realised they had neither the mental faculties nor the general sobriety required to muse. So both stopped the arduous task of thinking and in time honoured tradition, had a drinking contest, the loser being the first to vomit from ingesting too much of the vile brew.

The game lasted a long time, and had gathered quite a crowd nearing the end, Lord knows, in a town like that one, there wasn't much entertainment. In fact it did not end in the usual manner, which entertained the crowd further, as the giant, particularly inebriated and gesticulating wildly, managed to knock over the cup of his opponent, and out spilled a clear substance that was usually referred to as water. Cries of "Cheat!" and "Thief!" erupted in the crowd, who began to converge on the hapless Jesus, and sweating profusely, he shouted anything that would get him out of the hiding of a lifetime.

"Behold, I have turned wine into water!" Now as luck would have it, Jesus had offended a crowd with around sixty brain cells between them, and with a few weak pulses across the synapses they simultaneously came to the conclusion that he was indeed telling the truth, and they all began proclaiming loudly to the people outside that Jesus turned wine into water, until one man who tended to get his up words muddled cried out "Jesus turned water into wine!"

* * *

Weeks later the legend of Jesus' miracle had spread throughout the land, and as with the nature of miracles it became common knowledge that Jesus turned a lake of water into wine, healed the lepers, commanded the elements and had slain the dragons. Soon a crowd had gathered in his little town to hear him speak. At much urging from Peter, he strolled out from the Bar and in a regal voice proclaimed, _"Give unto me a tenth of your monies to show your devotion to the Lord our God."_ He was after all, only in it for a bit of cash.


End file.
